by Un-su Kim
But obviously I wasn’t being honest with myself. The real reason we were miserably going down to the cafeteria was because there had been an official announcement to “Use the company cafeteria as much as possible!” I guess the manager of the company cafeteria, a well-connected fellow, had complained to the higher-ups that business was slow. But even considering this, it was low of them to make it seem like we had any choice in the matter by adding the deceptive phrase “as much as possible.” As much as possible was as good as all the time. Really, it was a cowardly way to word a mandate.
But that’s what being a salaryman was all about. If there was an order from upstairs, you had to make adjustments. You had to at least refrain from complaining about how the cafeteria tasted like cement or dog food. The rebellious nature of humans was, of course, charming and good. And humans should resist and rebel against the injustices of the world. But men had to choose their fights carefully. It wasn’t becoming of a man to get worked up over something as silly as cafeteria side dishes. It seemed a bit cheap, too. And unjustified. So we had to let little things like that go and save ourselves for bigger, more important issues. All we had to do was shut our eyes and bite the bullet, so to speak. Shut them tight.
So here I was. Sitting in the cafeteria. Sitting in the cafeteria with the same side dishes that they miraculously served all week, as if consistency were the only virtue in cooking – all the while giving intermittent applause to the lectures and jokes of my boss, the mere sight of whom never failed to give me indigestion. I’m meticulously chewing on rice and swallowing hard. How’s the rice, you ask? Well, it tastes sort of like it had been mixed with raw hairtail.
“Hey, look over there, at that girl.”
The vice president pointed toward one corner of the cafeteria as he clicked his tongue. There in the corner, was Jeong-eun from General Affairs, eating by herself. No one ever sat in that corner because it was occupied by a large refrigerator, messy trash cans, and the incessant whir of a rotating fan. Seeing her at lunchtime, even I felt slightly annoyed, and wondered why she chose to eat alone in such a place.
“Why does she do that to herself. Why does she always eat in that smelly, bacteria-infested corner? And boy, can she eat! No wonder she looks like that. Honestly, there should be a limit on how fat someone can get and still be considered a woman. Doesn’t she think about the deep culture shock she gives society by walking around with that body? But then again, she is uncultured. No?”
The vice president looked at us as he asked this question but everyone just ignored him. What else could we do but ignore him? We definitely couldn’t say, “Yes, sir. She is shockingly fat.” And the vice president’s assumption that she ate a lot was only a prejudice he formed against her because she was fat. If he had actually looked at her tray, he would have discovered an unbelievably small amount of food. With no one answering him, the vice president began spouting off again.
“Well, fat or not, why gorge yourself in the corner with that fan blowing dust all over you? It’s much more fun to eat together and be chummy with your colleagues, isn’t it? Is that the only way she can enjoy a meal? What an odd creature. An odd creature indeed. Just looking at that woman annoys me. Isn’t that right, Mr Park?”
This time, instead of asking the unspecified masses, the vice president called out Mr Park.
“Yes, sir!” Mr Park answered with enthusiasm.
I wasn’t sure to what Mr Park was saying yes. He probably hadn’t even been listening to the vice president. But then again, when someone asks you the question “Isn’t that right?” chances are, the correct answer is “Yes, sir!” I guess being positive was a good way to go through life. And Mr Park seemed to be doing well. But the real reason Mr Park answered so enthusiastically was not because of his positive personality. It was because Mr Park never had an opinion on anything.
Even as the vice president was talking shit about her, Jeongeun simply ignored him and stared down at her plate as she methodically ate her lunch. At the table across from us were a group of female employees from General Affairs cackling about something. They might have even been talking about Jeong-eun as well. The most entertaining conversation at this research institute was always gossip about Son Jeong-eun. People talking about everything from her weight and her ridiculously dated sense of fashion to her old shoes, dogged silence, and what she might be thinking. But I can’t understand why people gossiped so passionately about a quiet girl whom you wouldn’t even have known existed if you weren’t looking.
“You know that Korean saying, ‘You can live with a fox, but you can’t live with a bear’? As in, smart women are the best to marry. But why a fox and a bear? Well, when I look at Ms Son, I think I finally understand why. She looks like she could be the bear-woman from the legend of Dangun. Just lock her in a cave for a hundred days with some garlic and mugwort, and I bet she’d turn back into a bear. Department Head Song, what’s it like working with Ms Son?”
This time, the vice president made a serious face as he looked at Department Head Song. Not expecting to be asked such a question, Department Head Song swallowed the kernels of rice he had been chewing on and took a sip of anchovy seaweed soup. Yes, anchovy seaweed soup. This was today’s daily special. Something you can’t find anywhere else. If you’re curious how it tastes, simply put, it tastes like shit. If that’s too abstract of a description for you, just imagine seaweed and anchovies cooked in water that was used for boiling dishrags.
“Well, since she’s not in our department–” said Department Head Song in a calm voice.
“Yes, but you work in the same office.”
The vice president always asked twice. He was that sort of person. The type of person who had to hear the answer he wanted, whatever the situation. To survive working under such a person, you needed to answer every question they asked. But what did Department Head Song know outside of making model sailboats? Besides, answering such a question would require our company giving its workers more than the most meager scraps of work at least, something by which to assess individual skill.
“I heard she completes the work given to her in an orderly fashion.” Department Head Song’s response was unsurprisingly well-mannered.
“Orderly fashion? That half-bear, half-pig woman? Does she even know the meaning of the phrase ‘in an orderly fashion’?” the vice president suddenly screamed. “Fine, let’s say that she does do things in an orderly fashion, like you say,” he continued. “But there’s more to living in society than just that. Completing your work – that’s a given for a paycheck-earning worker; there’s got to be something more. Women office workers – they’re the flowers of the office! They liven up the workspace, make working together fun, give you someone nice to talk to – you know, things like that.” The vice president lowered his voice as he leaned in close to us. I could smell the strong odor of dead skin and blackheads. Thankfully, I wasn’t eating the anchovy seaweed soup, otherwise I would have thrown up.
“You guys wouldn’t know because you’re young. But it’s hard to get it up as you get older. But you know what? Just looking at that pig is enough to get rid of any hard-earned boner. And I hate that feeling; it’s the worst! There’s no other way to describe it. At my age, there’s nothing more depressing than losing a boner you worked so hard to get. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, that bitch makes me depressed. Hahaha!”
And this was the punch line of his longwinded diatribe? Realizing that he had been trying to tell a joke, everyone started laughing awkwardly. Haha, hoho, hehe. But, shit, it was hard to laugh together. Laughing always had to be done in unison, but it was too obvious that our laughs were forced. Everyone felt terribly uncomfortable. It was impossible not to feel embarrassed after such a bout of forced laughter. As the fragile respect we held for one another crumbled, it felt like we were all saying, “What can we do? Enduring awkward moments together like this is what it takes to survive.”
In the meantime, the vice president had finished the food o
n his tray. Seeing how he finished even the boiled-dishrag-water anchovy seaweed soup, I guess he must have an amazing appetite. But then again, is there anything a man like him can’t eat? There’s not a bribe he wouldn’t take; he’d take anything – money, goods, gift cards, assorted gift sets, even a six-month IOU. All you had to do was put it in front of him, and he’d find some way to get you something in return. Indeed, he had a bad record taking bribes and being involved in scandals, and after traveling up and down the ladder for many years, he had finally transferred here. After a few years of lying low, he would leave again when the world had forgotten. People always said the vice president’s connections had landed him here, but the only landing he had made was an emergency one.
The vice president got up with his tray. Mr Park and I quickly rose and offered to take his tray for him.
“I’ll take that, sir,” we both said simultaneously with embarrassed hands outstretched.
“Why thank you.”
The vice president’s eyes went back and forth between the two of us until he finally gave the tray to me. Then he took another glance at Jeong-eun sitting in the corner of the cafeteria.
“And look at what she’s eating. That stuff tastes horrible. You know, I’ve never once seen her offer her opinion during a meeting. All she does is shut her mouth and say nothing. She hasn’t once gone to an office party or said hi to me on the way to work. And she looks so shabby. And fat, too. Who would marry a personality or waist like that? Not a chance. Not even a dying man would take that cow for a bride. But even so, I can’t stop staring.”
The vice president was talking to himself but as if he wanted everyone to hear him. Indeed, this time, he spoke quite loudly. Definitely loud enough for Jeong-eun to hear. Even though she continued to hunch over her food as she ate, you could see her ears flush and her shoulders begin to shake slightly, either from the anger or the tears.
In the book Blue Lizard, Édouard Manet said that when he was fourteen, all he wanted to do was “destroy the world with dynamite.” That’s the only passage I remember from that book. Thinking about it now, I was exactly the same at fourteen. Back then, I would have blown up my school if I’d had a stick of dynamite. I was always so angry at everything that surrounded me.
For example, I disliked the school rule that I had to button up my school uniform all the way to my neck. I felt like I would suffocate when I buttoned my shirt up like that. It was the same with the rule that said we had to think about our aspirations for a few seconds at least every day when we passed the bronze statue of the headmaster, on which was written the words “Boys must aspire to do.” All boys aspire to become doctors, go to law school, or get into some college, but as for me, unfortunately I had no aspirations whatsoever. I couldn’t even understand how becoming a doctor or lawyer was a natural thing for a boy to want to do.
I hated everything about school. Whenever I was hit with an eraser or had to stand outside in the hallway just because I had dozed off a bit during class, I would often wonder to myself how it was that students didn’t revolt. I just couldn’t understand it. Children were too nice. I wasn’t smart, nor was I any good at sports. It was common for me to fumble over my words even when the teacher asked me about something I knew, and because I wasn’t good at fighting, the bigger kids always stole my lunch money. I was just your average kid. That’s what my teens were like for me. But what’s so bad about being average? This world is full of average things.
It was October, if I remember correctly. I was looking outside the window during class at the sports field. A large whirlwind was spinning the October gingko leaves round and round, sending them high into the sky. Following the shape of the twister, the gingko leaves spun as they soared up past the flagpole. The image of gingko tree leaves being whirled as if they were pieces of ice in Saturn’s rings was beautiful and wonderous to behold. I had never seen such a beautiful gust of wind. Without realizing it, I let out a gasp in admiration. At that moment, my ethics teacher – whose nickname was “Silica Gel” because of his skeleton-like thin face and skin so dry you couldn’t find an ounce of moisture on it – called me over to his desk. “What were you staring at?” Thinking that such a beautiful scene only occurred a few times in a young boy’s life, I thought my teacher would understand how I felt. So, I told the truth. “I was gazing at a beautiful gust of wind as it spun round and round a pile of gingko tree leaves.” All the children began laughing. Silica Gel gave me a dry stare. He then said, “The boy’s gone mad.” Silica Gel took out his watch and began slapping me. One, two, three, four. But it wasn’t my cheeks that he hit; it was my heart. Pale, sad things that had been deep in my chest came up through my throat. I began screaming like a madman. “Ahh, ahh, ahh!”
Silica Gel was so shocked that he had to take several steps back. He stared at me in awe. The children also stared at me in silence. It felt like the entire classroom had paused for a moment. Finally, I stormed out of the classroom.
So why the ridiculous story about a whirlwind? Well, despite being an average fourteen-year-old boy, I knew what beauty and anger were. Just look at this lunchtime. It was as unreal as something from Cabinet 13. I mean, how can someone think it’s OK to call someone a pig in the presence of other people, just because he’s the boss? I wouldn’t feel right even saying that to a real pig.
But no one was enraged by those words. It even felt natural that no one was enraged. Where did it go? Where did all that anger from when I was fourteen go? Looking for my missing rage, I rummaged through my pocket with one hand as I placed the vice president’s lunch tray through the hole at the tray return station with the other. Looking through the hole I yelled, “Hey, do something else tomorrow. I’m sick of the anchovy seaweed soup!”
I’M OVER HERE, TOO.
I dream the same dream once or twice a month. The dream is about a traumatic experience that happened when I was in the military. In the dream, I am aware that I am dreaming. But knowing that I am dreaming doesn’t help me escape the horror I feel. All around me is fire, and as I stand in the smoke, I am waiting desperately for something. But what I am waiting for? I am probably waiting for an order, any order.
It’s a fire drill. My old sergeant is tilting his head.
“I’ve been in the military for thirty years, and I’ve never seen such a stupid training exercise.”
The drill situation is this: Our troops are retreating. The barracks have been bombed and are on fire. Our objective is to evacuate the barracks in order of most strategic importance. Getting the order correct is essential.
A blue tag is attached to things that need to be evacuated immediately; a red tag on things that can be lost to the fire. I adhere to my chest a blue tag and stand inside the warehouse with all sorts of objects – tables, entrenching shovels, gas masks, televisions. I’m playing the role of the injured soldier. Thankfully, I’m not on the list of expendables. Looking at the blue tag on my chest, I think to myself I am lucky. After all, I’m not expendable.
The training exercise starts, and someone lights the inside of the warehouse on fire to make it more realistic. Another person sets off a smoke bomb. In seconds, the smoke fills the barracks. (Ah yes, realistic combat training. Whatever floats their boat. Personally, I thought it was natural to keep training just training and leave realistic battles for the actual battlefield. But in the military, they had this stupid phrase, “Train like it’s a real fight. Fight like it’s training” – whatever that meant.) The platoon leader enters the warehouse wearing a mask, followed by the cadets. The soldiers hastily start trying to put out the fire with something that looks like a blanket.
“What are you guys doing?” asks the platoon leader.
“Aren’t we supposed to put out the fire?” replies one cadet.
“You idiot. We’re at war. It’s raining bullets and you want to put out a fire?”
The platoon leader is furious. (Cough, cough. But he’s right. Who would try to put out a fire when it’s raining bullets?)
First on the list is documents. Classified documents, top secret documents, secret documents, confidential material, maps, battle plans, codes, and ciphers (Cough, cough. I guess those things are pretty important). Fourth on the list is recon dogs (Cough, cough. Well, German Shepherds are worth 30,000,000 won). Seventh on the list are LAWs and Stingers (Cough, cough. I’m still hanging in there. And besides, light anti-tank weapons and anti-helicopter weapons are a luxury. They’re a lot more valuable than Private Kong). Eighth, ammunition and grenades (Cough, cough. Now this is getting a bit ridiculous. They should have taken those out first! They’d explode if the fire got to them). Ninth, training guns and locks (Cough, cough. What? Locks? I can understand the guns, but what did they need locks for in a situation like this? Are they joking? I’m starting to suffocate from the smoke). Tenth, file cabinets (Cough, cough. Cabinets! I can’t believe this).